


The Sun On Your Face

by mercureletters



Series: Have Pride in Yourself [2]
Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Gender Dysphoria, Things Get Better, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 18:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17944826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercureletters/pseuds/mercureletters
Summary: Micheal was one concerned text message away from driving to Pompano Beach to throw his phone into the ocean.





	The Sun On Your Face

**Author's Note:**

> The plot is way different that I originally planned it- this waiver wire pickup changes a lot about the story!! Also, this is not as enjoyable if read as a standalone, please read A Chip On Your Shoulder

Micheal was one concerned text message away from driving to Pompano Beach to throw his phone into the ocean. 

Three weeks had passed since his Callahan-related freakout. By now, Micheal assumed that his team would be over it, but he couldn’t even open his phone without seeing another text from a fellow Panther asking about his well-being. The texts were well meant, but they were annoying. What kind of enforcer got treated like a porcelain doll, anyways? He'd never heard of the concept, and it sounded ridiculous for the team to protect their own protector. As Micheal pondered the thought, he lounged on Barkov’s couch, ignoring what he had decided was the fifth text from Reimer, a cup of coffee in hand. The tv played in the background, more for the sake of having noise than watching. The soft "fwip" of his phone remained ignored in favor of considering what it would mean to come out, and what kind of enforcer he was supposed to be.  


“Another text message?” Micheal jumped at the voice. Barkov smiled, walking into the room from the kitchen, his own mug in hand. 

Micheal took his feet off the couch but otherwise remained slumped, “Reimer again. He asked me if,” Micheal paused to reread the text, “I was okay, and about how if I need to talk, he’s here for me. You know, like literally everyone else has,”

"They're just concerned," Barkov ruffled his hair.

Micheal resisted the desire to lean into the touch he seldom allowed. "I'm not going to shatter if someone hits me, though... Who even worries about an enforcer like this?"

“Well,” Barkov took a sip of his coffee, “at least they care about you, right?”

Micheal sighed, “I guess it’s better than them not caring at all, but,” Micheal waved his phone in the air, “three weeks of nothing but ‘are you okay’ texts and random attempts to comfort me during practice?" Micheal dropped his phone onto the couch, "I’m ready to cancel my phone plan and become a swamp hermit,”

“Please don’t go off into the swamp. We still need someone to fight for us,” Barkov smiled slightly, then took a seat beside Micheal’s knees.

“In the swamp, people don’t mass text you,”

“In a swamp, you can’t play hockey,”

“Yes I could, it’d be swamp-key or something like that. Put on a diving suit and hit a floating ball around,”

Barkov turned to Micheal with a pointed look and smile and opened his mouth, probably to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but a loud ring interrupted them. Micheal lifted up his phone to check the caller ID, and groaned. Of course Frank Vatrano called. It had been inevitable. In the list of things that had to happen eventually and the list of things Micheal didn’t want to deal with, Vatrano calling was number one on both.

“You gonna answer that?” Barkov asked, sipping at his mug again.

Micheal looked Barkov in the eye with a twinkle, a small smile, “I would rather die,”

Micheal then set down his coffee on the table, and listened to the phone ring for another few seconds. He rubbed a hand across the flat surface of his shirt, glad not to be in his binder, but finding something off. Then, he reached down and slid the phone to answer. Barkov laughed just loud enough to be heard over the phone, so Micheal glared at him and put it on speaker.

“Hey, Frankie,” Micheal started.

The phone crackled a little bit, something like paper being crushed, then followed up by, “Hales, hi! It’s good to hear from you, you aren’t answering anyone’s texts so I thought I'd call,”

“Sorry man, I’m just,” Micheal glances at Barkov, “hanging out with Barky,”

Barkov nodded, “Hey Frankie,”

“Oh, that’s nice, Hales, but,” Vatrano’s worry was palpable over the phone, “you haven’t been answering for... weeks. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Frankie,” Haley gritted his teeth, then sighed, “I’m sorry, what I mean is, I’m really tired of answering that question. Yes, Frankie, I’m fine, can everyone please stop asking that question?”

“We’re just worried about you, Haley,” 

"I know, but I haven’t been asked anything except that for three weeks. I told every single one of you that I’m okay and you’re still asking!"

"Have we really been asking that much?" That wasn't Vatrano's voice, that was Trocheck's.

Micheal's frown deepened. "Vatrano, what the fuck? You didn't say Troch was there with you,"

"Oh, fuck," Micheal recognized the swear and barely audible string of Russian curses as Dadonov. Pysyk's voice rang clear as he told Dadonov to shut up.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me Daddy and Pysyk were there, either? Who else is over there?"

Vatrano started slow, as if Micheal were a startled animal, "Now, Haley, we're all just worried about you... You understand that, right?"

"So everyone except Barkov," Micheal's hand brushed through his hair,

Trocheck popped in, "Huberdeau isn't because he thought it would be wrong, and Hoffman didn't bother,"

"Okay, you know what? That's cute, that you're all so worried about me, but," Micheal emphasized his words, "I. Am. Fine. There isn't a problem. If I have a problem, you can't force it out of me. If there's a problem, I will tell you in my own time,"

"And you're sure you're fine?"

"I'm sure. I'm not going to call someone at three in the morning on the verge of a breakdown from some unspecified problem, I swear,"

Trocheck bounced back in, "Well, we're all here, so why don't we just all agree to stop asking Hales how he is and then have some fun!"

"Movie night at Barkov's place?" Dadonov asked, "We could do scary movie night,"

Haley snorted, "You want Huby to not sleep before a game again?"

The vigorous chatter warmed Micheal's heart. Nothing left Micheal so happy as his teammates' soft bickering. 

* * *

It's three in the morning, a week later, when Micheal wakes up with his stomach churning and his mind in every place it shouldn't be.

This wasn't his room, and it took Micheal a good few minutes to remember he was on a road trip with the Panthers. Micheal rolled out of bed and staggered to the hotel bathroom in the dark. His hands fumbled for a light switch, heart in his throat and his body chilled as the lights flicked on. He shook his head, and opened his eyes to look at the source of his sickness for only a brief moment before he leaned down and splashed water on his face and focused solely on the way the stubble of his beard scratched on his hands.

Even so, the weight of his body constricted Micheal's breath when he leaned back up. His chest, even under the thick black tank top, was clearly visible, his hands too small, his hips too wide, and Micheal wanted to scream until his voice broke. Everything swirled around in his head too fast as he tried to recollect what he had been dreaming about, something too familiar.

Micheal turned away from the mirror and flicked the light back off, a hand in his hair. He swore he'd been back in his old middle school. Everything seemed off, though, as if he weren't himself. As Micheal crawled onto the bed and flopped down on his back, he recalled the sensation of flowing fabric, of soft legs shaved and long hair around his shoulders that left him nauseated.

Micheal almost forgot how horrible dysphoria could be on the worst nights. The last time he'd had it this bad, he'd been with the San Jose Barracuda. Micheal curled up in his blankets and gripped his phone, knowing very well he'd have to skip tonight's game if it didn't get better. He couldn't look at himself in the mirror, never mind change his clothes. Even the pressure of his tank top reminded him too much that his chest was there. Micheal's stomach churned, his head fuzzy, vision blurred into a swathe of moonbathed colors, and all he wanted was to rip off his own skin. The last thing he wanted was to be alone, but what could he do?

His fingers worked long before the rest of him did, spaced out and desperate for some sort of comfort. Maybe it was because it had been so long, but Micheal couldn't bring himself to be alone with the sensation. He wanted someone who he knew had to be supportive, not Barkov because Barkov already had too much on his plate. He wanted a You Can Play representative. He blinked to clear his blurred vision as soon as he hit call. 

"It's three in the morning," Ekblad didn't give a hello, he sounded pissed off, "what the fuck, man?"

Micheal stayed quiet, hesitated, then hesitated even more until he finally decided to hang up. Before he could press the red button, Ekblad started up again. 

"Shit... Hales, wait, sorry," Ekblad's groggy voice came through, "I thought this was Matheson again with another dumb question,"

Micheal swallowed hard, then croaked, "That's fine, don't worry about it,"

"Are you okay?" Ekblad's voice turned more alert, and he heard someone else- Huberdeau?- groan in the background while Ekblad spoke, "Hales, I know you don't want us to ask questions like that, but you sound like shit,"

Micheal's hand squeezed around his phone, "You're the You Can Play rep, right?"

"Hales... Are you...?" He could hear shuffling, Huberdeau's muffled voice, and Ekblad said, "I'll be there in two minutes. This isn't the kind of conversation for the phone,"

"Can you bring Huby?"

"If you want, I guess?"

"Please, bring him,"

Micheal shrugged off his tank top and threw it aside, unable to stand the pressure of it as a reminder of his self-disgust. He wrapped blankets around his shoulders, let them fall across his body and hide his shape from himself. He rose from the bed, scurried over to the door, and rested a hand on the handle. Before Micheal had been there a full minute, a soft knock came, and Micheal opened it. Two forms stepped in, familiar even in the dark. Huberdeau shut the door for Micheal. Huberdeau's arm wrapped around Micheal's shoulders. 

"Alright, Hales," Huberdeau smoothed Micheal's messy hair, "let's talk about this,"

Micheal nodded, "Okay, uh, can I sit on the bed, though?"

Huberdeau released Micheal, Ekblad stepped aside, and Micheal hurried over to the bed, still wrapped in his blankets. Ekblad frowned. "So," He looked disheveled, not surprising for the hour, "Haley, about the fact that you're gay..."

"Well," Micheal interrupted him, "I mean I am, kind of, but," He held a hand out flat and did a so-so gesture, "it's more that I'm..."

The silence dragged on as Micheal hesitated. The lump in his throat silenced him. Ekblad's expression softened, and he sat down beside Micheal on the bed. "Take your time,"

"I'm sorry," Micheal's heart squeezed in his chest.

"Don't apologize,"

Micheal refused to look at them, then leaned against Ekblad's side. He gripped the blankets tightly. Huberdeau crawled up and pressed into the untouched side of Micheal's body to comfort him. The heat glowed against his cold, uncomfortable skin. Despite the danger, Micheal did feel comforted, cared about.

"Guys," Micheal swallowed hard, his eyes plastered to the floor, afraid to look either of his friends in the eye, "I'm- I'm-,"

Huberdeau knit his fingers into Micheal's hair slowly, leaving Micheal leaning into the touch, "Just breathe, talk when you can,"

"Thanks, Huby," Micheal took a deep breath. "Ekblad, Huberdeau," Micheal spoke slowly, deliberately slow to keep his voice as steady as possible, "I'm transgender,"

Ekblad hummed softly. "Thank you for telling us. I know it was hard,"

Huberdeau's arms laced around Micheal's body in silence, pulled him closer with an affectionate squeeze. "What can we do?" Huberdeau sounded terribly sincere, as always, "We're here for you, Hales,"

"I don't know," Micheal's hands interlocked with Ekblad's, and he leaned into Huberdeau, "I just don't want to be alone when my own skin feels wrong,"

Huberdeau pulled on Micheal until he laid back on the bed, "We could sleep here too, if you want,"

Ekblad rubbed at his beard, "It'd be like movie night at Vatrano's, we could all just pile up,"

"I don't think Hales ever actually joined those pile ups," Huberdeau said.

"He did too, on that stupid romcom night you wanted,"

"Romcom night was not stupid!"

Listening to Ekblad and Huberdeau bicker at a whisper put Micheal's mind at ease. He could tune out most of his own feelings, too distracted by how Ekblad leaned in to argue with Huberdeau and how Huberdeau's arms moved more than necessary. It kept his mind off of his own body. More importantly, it felt right. This was something he knew too well.

As Micheal trailed off to sleep, a thought dug into him. He couldn't keep hiding this. It hurt him too much to keep hiding, and he was so sick of shoving himself into bathroom stalls to change clothes and being unable to touch his teammates without suffocating himself with a binder or wearing full hockey gear. Something had to change.

* * *

Something had to change, and Micheal made his choice. Micheal had skipped the game, and spent his scratched time on the phone with Public Relations to set up a meeting for the second the plane landed. They would call Boughner any second now, on the plane, with Micheal's gaze out the window, unable to meet the eyes of his teammates, dressed up in his suit instead of the soft hoodie and loose t-shirt he wore on flights. Nobody knew, not Barkov, Ekblad, Huberdeau, no one. Haley only turned his gaze on Boughner when the phone rang. Micheal set his jaw.

"Bob Boughner," Boughner answered the phone in his seat. Everyone quieted down, only out of courtesy. After a moment of silence, he frowned, "Did something happen? I kept track of the boys, they didn't do anything wrong,"

Everyone fell entirely silent, eyes on Boughner. He turned around in his seat and looked Micheal in the eye, "Do you know why he called this meeting?" Another long silence, and Boughner's brow knit in worry, "You don't know? That's alright. I'll be there for it," He gave his thanks and hung up.

Everyone glanced at Micheal in his lone seat. Barkov, Ekblad, and Huberdeau all got up and seated themselves next to him. Huberdeau and Barkov quietly murmured to one another before Huberdeau sat directly next to Micheal and the other two took the seats in front of him. They waited, waited, waited, but no one turned away from them.

Ekblad called out, "Why don't you all mind your own business? Jesus, it's a PR meeting, not an execution,"

Slowly, everyone went back to their own somewhat uneasy conversations, and Barkov whispered, "Haley, what did you do?"

"I just," Micheal shrugged, "called a PR meeting," Huberdeau frowned, "But why? You only just came out to us,"

"Guys, I'm thirty two," Micheal leaned forward and braced his hands on his knees, but as Micheal spoke he felt powerful, "I've been hiding that I'm trans from leagues since I started with Sarnia. Even if I only have you guys when this is done, I decided I want to be able to live my life without being scared of getting found out every day of my life,"

Ekblad nodded, leaned over the seat, "I think it's a good idea. I can't imagine the impact this must have on your quality of life,"

"I don't. This could be dangerous for him," Barkov furrowed his brow, "The world is more tolerant, but this is hockey! You know hockey is full of transphobia and homophobia,"

Ekblad shot back, "And what, make him hide for the rest of his career? Not to mention that it will open doors for other trans and gay people! You can't see change unless you are it,"

Micheal cleared his throat and waited for the whispers to stop. He spoke a little louder due to the noise of the jet landing, still unable to be heard by the other Panthers. "It's my choice, and I already made it. I'm doing a meeting with Public Relations as soon as we land the plane, and I'm going to come out to the team," He gave a laugh, "I'll tell everyone what _transpired_ in my life," The three collectively groaned at his pun.

"Well, if you're feeling good enough to make a joke," Huberdeau raised his eyebrows and smiled, one arm slipped around Micheal's shoulder, "then you definitely feel good about this,"

Micheal shrugged, the butterflies in his stomach conflicted with the warmth in his chest, "I mean, I'm nervous, but I know this has to happen. And I feel stronger for doing this,"

"Do you want anything?" Barkov asked, relaxed.

Micheal paused, then nodded, "Maybe for you guys to be there? Because, you already know, and I don't want to do this alone,"

"We'll be there," Huberdeau smiled as Barkov and Ekblad nodded.

As the plane landed, Micheal took a deep breath, worry in his bones. Micheal scrambled to grab his stuff, and found he'd left his black binder halfway out of the open front pocket. His teammates must either have not noticed it or not known what it was. Micheal gripped the binder in hand and decided that, fuck it, he was coming out anyways. He carried it in one hand, his bag hefted on his shoulder, and filed out with everyone else. 

He waved at the rest of the concerned Panthers team, headed to his car like every other player did, and drove. On the road, he noted Huberdeau's and Ekblad's cars twice and Barkov's once behind him. Someone honked at him on the road, rightfully so since he drove with little attention to the road. The fact he somehow didn't get into a crash was solely by the grace of God, because Micheal's head was too full, too brimming with worry and thoughts about how this would go down. He pulled into his parking spot crooked, readjusted his car with a knuckle-whitening grip on the steering wheel, and put the stick in park. Micheal climbed out of his car, slammed the door, and walked three feet before he took pause and pulled his car key out to lock it.

"Nervous, Haley?" Huberdeau asked as he strolled across the black top towards Micheal.

Micheal swallowed and shrugged, starting towards the Panthers' front office. Huberdeau frowned and matched Micheal's pace, waited until they were inside the building to grasp Micheal's shoulder. Micheal glanced at him, and Huberdeau flicked his head towards an empty hallway away from the countless people at the front desk. Micheal followed Huberdeau, only to get pulled around the corner, out of sight.

Hales," Huberdeau let Micheal go, "are you sure about this? You seem scared,"

Micheal nodded, "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just... you know, coming out is scary as fuck,"

"I know," Huberdeau then backtracked, scratching his scalp, "I mean, not that I know from _experience_ , but, you know, I just- I haven't ever come out myself, but-"

Micheal laughed, breathless in sound, then said softly, "Huby, relax,"

For a moment, Huberdeau frowned, eyes half-lidded. Then, with a small smile, he stepped into Micheal's space, eye contact intense, "Well, what if-"

"There you two are," Ekblad gripped Huberdeau by the collar of his shirt, "PR is looking for you already, you can't just call an emergency meeting and then run off, come on!"

Huberdeau sighed, shook his head, and pushed Ekblad off of him. He walked towards the lobby with a slouch. Ekblad glanced at Micheal and shurgged, then both hurried back to the lobby. The PR rushed them down a different hallway, up a flight of stairs, and into a large, spacious room.

The large, rectangular, white table had countless half-cleaned coffee stains on it that Micheal could only guess were from the last meeting. The walls were pristine, on the other hand, a shade of gray that left a conservative impression on him. A knife pressed into his stomach and twisted, Micheal's breath a soft shudder as he crept to the front of the room. The scrape of chairs on boring white floor tiles ate at him, but Micheal knew what he had to do. No one could question his truth.

Micheal took his seat at the front of the room, his teammates- his friends- on the other side of the room. Huberdeau placed the tip of his shoe on Micheal's foot, prodding him like he wanted Micheal to play footsies with him under the table like they did at team dinners, and somehow, the playful gesture relaxed him. Micheal rolled his shoulders, leaned his elbows on the table, and scanned over the room. Everyone from Public Relations was present, as was Boughner and his friends. He could start.

"Alright," Micheal cleared his throat, "most of you don't know why I called this meeting, and you're wondering why I'm here," Micheal stood up, somewhat embarrassed he sat down in the first place, "I think it's time that I told you the truth about myself,"

Boughner furrowed his brow, "Haley, you hid something from us?"

"I did, because I was scared... but I'm not anymore," As Micheal straightened up, he put his shoulders back, forced confidence into his words and his appearance, "I'm bisexual and transgender, and I want to be the first player to come out," He paused, realizing that could be misinterpreted since Micheal already passed as long as they couldn't see his body directly, "I'm a trans man, by the way. I'm not transitioning to be a girl,"

Micheal kept his expression steady, even with the way Huberdeau's lips lips parted, as if he were surpised, and even with the way Boughner froze. Micheal wouldn't be scared back into the closet. Not like this.

"Thank you for sharing this information with us, Micheal," The head of Public Relations smiled, "We think coming out to your teammates would be an excellent idea,"

Micheal shook his head, and then realized yet again that maybe standing such a good idea, and sat down, "I want to come out to the public,"

"Are you sure you want to do that?" The PR head asked, hands folded.

"I want to come out," Micheal repeated, "I'm sick of hiding,"

"We don't feel this is a wise choice at this point," The PR head said, "We will wait until you've signed a new contract, unless you are transferred to another team. As for your locker room, coming out to them is important,"

Micheal's heart sank. "I mean... Uh, I will be telling them at the next practice... If that's okay,"

"Actually, Micheal," Boughner interrupted him, "I have a few questions,"

Micheal turned his head to Boughner and steeled himself, "Okay, coach, what's your questions,"

"Does Gary Bettman know that you're transgender?" Boughner started, "Were you approved to play if you're using testosterone?"

Micheal's stomach turned, but he answered the questions. "Gary Bettman discussed this with me hours before I signed for the Islanders. He and the medical staff discussed my use of testosterone shots, and I got approved to both be in the NHL and to be able to use my testosterone shots legally. If you'd like to discuss this with him, you can ask him for a statement,"

"So you've been approved by him to play officially?" Boughner asked.

Micheal swallowed, "I have signed and documented proof that he approved me to play in the league, and I can show it to you after the meeting,"

"As your coach, I never received your legal name," Boughner placed his hands on the table, "neither did our General Manager, and so we never could do a background check on you to a full extent,"

Heat rose into Micheal's blood, "Micheal Haley is my legal name, sir, and my birth name is both available if you look at my records and unnecessary to know. If a background check is necessary, all records will show up under Micheal Haley,"

"Do you feel that not telling us your sex and orientation was a deceptive or predatory move? Your teammates had the right to know they were-"

"Coach Boughner," Barkov interrupted him, "that is an inappropriate question,"

Boughner frowned, "I just feel it was within the rights of his teammates to know they were sharing their locker room with," He hesitated, eyes on Micheal, "that," Micheal's throat tightened.

"Coach," Ekblad's voice was full of disgust, his eyes narrowed, "Are you serious?"

Huberdeau shook his head and shared an odd look with Barkov, and after that Boughner cleared his throat and quieted himself, flustered. Micheal flashed a weak smile to his teammates, then turned to the Public Relations team again. This wasn't a good feeling.

* * *

Huberdeau caught Micheal just as he walked into the locker room, his hand on Micheal's shoulder as soon as he stepped through the door, the bag on Micheal's opposite shoulder heavy. Huberdeau smiled, "Haley! Come sit at my cubby with me?"

"And hello to you too, Huby," Micheal raised his eyebrows, a grin on his face, "You know mine's on the other side of the room, right?"

Huberdeau slid his hands down to Micheal's bicep, a glimmer in his eyes, "I know, but no one is allowed to change until after your announcement, so I, I thought we could, uh, hang out?"

"I mean, sure, why not?" Micheal brushed him off, strolled over Huberdeau's cubby and tossed his bag on the floor, only for Huberdeau to brush the back of his hand hand against Micheal's arm. Micheal quirked his brow, "Uh, Huby, what are you doing, man?"

Huberdeau's expression blanked, and he pulled back with a small laugh and shrugged. Micheal chuckled and sat on the bench. Micheal didn't care that Huberdeau was being strange, not when there was so much affection behind it. Huberdeau sat beside Micheal, a bit too close, and held eye contact just a hair too long. Micheal leaned over and kicked his feet up, legs draped across Huberdeau's lap, and scanned the room.

Micheal kept the observation light, "We're still missing Pysyk, Barky, Eks, and Yands,"

"Ekblad and Barkov are just discussing the team dynamics that could be affected," Huberdeau's arms laid on Micheal's shins, hands rested the furthest one, "Yands texted me that he's stuck in traffic, but he'll be here in a few minutes. Pysyk is grabbing tape from a back room,"

Micheal nodded, "Okay," then, he turned his head to look at Huberdeau, "So, uh, something up? I know you like touching and all, but you don't usually do this much of it,"

"I'm okay, I just, um," Huberdeau glanced at Micheal, then turned his gaze to the floor, "I just thought spending time together would be nice,"

"Okay. You wanna talk about anything?"

Huberdeau shrugged, eyes still on the floor. Micheal absorbed the silence. Pysyk strolled back into the room with his black tape and sat down at his corner stall to unwrap his stick's tape. Micheal watched the stick, hypnotized by the repetitive twist of the stick as he removed tape, then by the application of the tape. When Pysyk finished, he walked off to find another stick to tape.

Huberdeau's hand drifted closer to Micheal's knee, "I like your music choices,"

"What?" Micheal turned his head bacj to Huberdeau, propped himself up with an elbow, "Well, thanks, man,"

The silence turns awkward. Micheal waits... waits... waits... and Huberdeau clears his throat, "I like that band,"

Micheal snorts, "Huby, I don't know what's wrong, but you gotta relax," He reached over and prodded him in the side, "Come on. Come on," He cleared his throat and, a mischievous tug at his lips, did his best Shaggy impression, which was terrible. "Like, Hubes, you gotta lighten up, man. No Huby snacks for Huby Duby Doo,"

Huberdeau held back a laugh, "Hales, no, no, don't- not the Scooby Doo jokes-"

Micheal then burst out into song, "Huby Duby Doo, where are you, we've got some work to do now,"

The chorus of groans and "Haley, stop" from everyone in the room left Micheal laughing. Huberdeau relaxed, his own chuckle deep in his chest, a hand pressed to the side of his head. That relaxation is what Micheal wanted most- Huberdeau deserved to be happy, relaxed, unhindered by sadness or worry.

"Better, Huby?" Micheal asked.

Huberdeau nodded, a pat to Micheal's leg, "Yes. Thank you,"

"You wanna talk about anything?"

The remaining time is spent on Micheal and Huberdeau on the topic of dogs, how Micheal wanted to get a dog and Huberdeau's sweet puppy. Mid-conversation, Barkov and Ekblad return with Boughner, and Yandle finally staggered in the door with a cold coffee stain on his chest and his gear bag partially open. Micheal untangled from Huberdeau. It was finally time for the truth to come out. Huberdeau reached down and squeezed Micheal's hand, and Micheal squeezed back. At least he had Huberdeau, Ekblad, and Barkov on his side...

Boughner took a few steps forward, "Yands, please sit down. I would like everyone seated and giving their undivided attention, because we will be having an important announcement today,"

Yandle shuffled to his seat and tugged his shirt off. Micheal waited patiently beside Huberdeau as Barkov took his seat, though Ekblad remained on his feet. An uneasy murmur traveled through the locker room. Huberdeau silently unlaced his fingers from Micheal, reluctant.

"Haley," Boughner had little sincerity, "please stand up. Ekblad, you can sit or stand, I don't mind either way,"

Micheal pushed off the wood of the benches and stood, strolled to the front of the room where everyone's eyes laid on him. "Been waiting all day for this,"

"Go on, Haley," Boughner stepped back and took a seat, "the floor is yours,"

Micheal surveyed the room, mostly relaxed due to his foolishness other than Yandle, who dabbed at his shirt with a towel. "Okay, guys, you know me. Some of you knew me when I arrived," Micheal gestured at Yandle, "or, maybe you're new and you don't know me all that well yet," Micheal flicked his head at Sheahan, "but we all know me, right? Goofy Haley, small man, big fighter, changes in the bathrooms, plays the bad music at practice, sings all the time,"

"Yeah, we know, Hales," McCoshen's reply was filled with affection.

Micheal breathed a laugh, then sobered, "We're going to have to strengthen our team relationships today, no matter what the differences are," Micheal forced himself to relax.

"Why?" Matheson asked, "I mean, it's not a problem, but why?"

Micheal pointed at Matheson, "Excellent question! Because there's a player in this room with a secret," He waited for the sudden wave of murmurs to relent, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said, "That player is me. I'm transgender and bisexual,"

Silence hung in the air, Micheal took anxious to open his eyes. He wished someone would speak, would do something... Micheal pried his eyes open despite his best desire to leave them closed, and a breath he didn't know he'd held let itself go. The majority of the room just looked surprised, brows raised by eyes innocent. Huberdeau smiled at Micheal. The only truly adverse reactions were Dadonov's confused, somewhat pained expression, Pysyk blocking his eyes with his hands, and the furrowed brow and lip bite from Yandle.

"Alright, do we have any questions?" Micheal took a step forward.

Yandle waved his shirt, "So, uh, what do we call you now?"

Whoops. "I'm a trans _man_ , sorry for not clarifying. You're already calling me by the right name,"

"Oh, good," Yandle nodded and relaxed, lip bite gone. 

Hoffman stood up, "Hang on, stop. I've been playing hockey with a fucking girl?!"

"I'm a man," Micheal glared.

"You have a fucking vagina, you're a girl, it's biology,"

Micheal snorted, "Okay, biology really doesn't mean anything. We have organs that are in us for no reason that we have to remove if they get infected, and the human spine is a tragedy. Nature makes lots of mistakes and this is one of them,"

"I'm not playing with it," Hoffman leaned against the wall, "I'm not playing with some fucking cuntboy, come on,"

Matheson turned to him, "Hoffman, what the fuck?"

"You can't just fucking change your gender!" Hoffman snapped, "Bisexuality, okay, but that? That's fucking fake,"

Matheson raised his voice, "Wow, imagine being such a self-absorbed dick that you think your teammate transitioning means it's okay to dehumanize him!"

Before the two of them could descend the room into chaos with a fight, Brown caught Hoffman as he tried to storm towards Matheson, and Ekblad rushed to grab Matheson. The two sneered at one another, then sat down at their respective stalls. As much as Micheal hated to say it, this was better than he'd expected things to go.

"Okay, any other questions?" Micheal asked. When no response came, he gave a forced, tight smile, "Great! Glad we had this talk. Now everyone can get dressed for practice,"

Micheal hurried to grab his bag, headed back to his own cubby, and stripped as quickly as possible. As if this weren't awkward enough for him to deal with, his body on full display in front of everyone as he changed, they were staring. Micheal rushed to get into his hockey gear, and as soon as he had it finished, he was done with being stared at.

"I'm going to stretch," Micheal forced himself to sound happy, not bothering to wait for a response as he disappeared through the door. At least the ice wouldn't judge him.

* * *

It hurt when Vatrano and Reimer uninvited Micheal from a team outing. It hurt more when everyone stopped talking to Micheal entirely.

Coming out had been a mistake.

* * *

He wasn't surprised to be placed on waivers. The team mostly stopped talking to him after he came out, and they stopped putting him in the lineup. Hoffman started making comments, spitting venom at him, pushing him around knowing that Micheal wouldn't fight back.

Micheal stood in only a black t-shirt and his jeans, emptying his locker in preparation to go to Springfield. He hated this, hated knowing he took a gamble on his team's support and lost everything. His heart ached as he stuffed all of his gear into his bag. The others came into the locker room, ready to practice.

Huberdeau paused, touched Micheal's shoulder, "Haley, I..."

"Huby, whatever you're going to say," Micheal dug his fingers into an elbow pad, "just don't,"

Huberdeau let go and sat down beside Micheal, "I'm sorry, Hales," He toyed with a glove on the bench, "I... I hope things are better when you go,"

"Me too, Huby,"

His career ended all because he couldn't stay quiet. He lost his whole life because he couldn't just deal with hiding it. Micheal's throat tightened as he finished clearing the locker, and had to take his glove from Huberdeau's hand. Maybe he was right to be ashamed of his identity...

Boughner walked in, "Haley, you have a flight to catch, get a move on,"

"Flight," Micheal paused, "I don't have to fly to Springfield,"

Boughner walked past Micheal, "You're not going to Springfield, the Sharks claimed you as soon as we put you on waivers,"

"Oh," San Jose... Maybe he could get a second chance, knowing hiding his identity was for the best. Micheal relaxed and closed his eyes. "I never got my ticket,"

Boughner shuffled through his own bag and came back with a ticket for Micheal's flight. Micheal silently dug out his black and white striped hoodie, a familiar piece from all the way back to his time with San Jose, and tugged it on. He picked up his bag and scanned the room. Only Huberdeau, Hawryluk, Barkov, Ekblad, Yandle, and Matheson seemed to grieve that he was leaving. Hoffman stood up, opened the locker room door for Micheal.

After all the cruel comments, Micheal didn't trust the act. "Thanks, I guess,"

"Enjoy San Jose while it lasts," Hoffman's voice was loud, too loud, and the last part left Micheal cold, "They won't want you around when they find out you're a girl, _Leah_ ,"

Micheal stared at Hoffman for a long moment, long enough to see Ekblad and Huberdeau jump to their feet, then Micheal said, "Congratulations on being able to use Google, you fucking waste of flesh and air," Micheal then disappeared through the locker room doors with a silent vow to never come back. He would not stay where his deadname lingered.

An apology for everything that happened arrived on Micheal's phone from Huberdeau. Micheal didn't read it.

The airport was loud, bustling, while the plane was quiet. No one recognized him on the flight, left him in peace to sleep as the plane crossed the country. He dozed the entire eight hour flight away, and despite the discomfort, it's worth it. The flight attendant has to rouse him from his sleep, and Micheal is bleary eyed, almost drunk with sleep.

Micheal never did find out whether he was supposed to get picked up or who he was supposed to talk to, so he decided he'd just grab a hotel room and drown the rejection of the Panthers in liquor. He didn't own his apartment in San Jose anymore. Micheal walked to the baggage carousel, though he took pause at the strangely large amount of taller men in various hats and coats, wearing sunglasses and keeping as much of their faces out of sight as possible. It wasn't any of his business if there were a bunch of strange men at the carousel, though. Micheal stood around for a long while, then finally spotted his bag. Before Micheal could walk to grab it, one of the men wearing a newsboy cap much like the one Micheal owned picked up the luggage. 

"Hey, what the hell do you think you're-" Micheal started, frustrated because all he wants to do is drink away his sadness and then go play hockey, but he immediately yelped as someone wrenched him off his feet.

Whoever had Micheal held off the floor had an absolutely massive beard, and Micheal went limp. If he struggled, someone would end up injured, and Micheal already had a good idea of who plucked him off the floor. Micheal reached one arm behind his head to pat the the back of Brent Burns' braided hair. The man with Micheal's bag turned to smile, and the second Micheal caught sight of the jawline, he recognized Tomas Hertl.

Burns laughed at the pat to his head and put Micheal on the floor, but didn't let go. The crowd of men who hid their faces started pulling off their sunglasses and untucked their faces from their coats, and Micheal choked the laugh in the back of his throat. Jumbo, Jones, Labanc, Dillon, Pavelski, more than just them, _every single member of the Sharks Haley knew was there._ For a moment, there was silence, then they erupted in a chorus of voices.

"Haley! Haley!"

"Welcome back, Halestorm!"

"Hales, holy shit!"

The entire team swarmed him, the area around him a mosh pit of teammates, so many old friends speaking at once that he couldn't tell where Dell started to talk, where the middle of Sorensen's sentence was, or where Couture ended his. The only thing Micheal could understand was that they were saying his name and that there was so much joy in the team crowding him. Micheal couldn't tell where Hertl's arms started and where Timo's ended, but in the mass of bodies and affection, Micheal wasn't sure he cared. Someone's hand messed up his hair and it felt like home.

"Guys, guys, calm down," Joe Pavelski's voice rang out over them all, "he can't answer you if you all talk at once,"

Micheal laughed as the entire mass of bodies around him groaned and complained, untangled themselves from him, and gave him the room to breathe. Before Jumbo Joe Thornton could pull his hand out of Micheal's hair, Micheal grabbed him by the arm and moved Jumbo's hand to his shoulder so Micheal could sit comfortably under his arm. Jumbo puffed up with a smile. Micheal felt so warm, with an uncontrollable smile on his face, and his entire world seemed to fall into place again. Why had he been so upset? Who the hell did Hoffman think he was? Micheal's heart was full.

Pavelski pushed his way through the others and ruffled Micheal's hair. "Welcome back, Haley,"

"Thanks, it's good to be back," Micheal grinned, "You haven't changed a bit,"

Pavelski nodded, "Thanks, it's the haircut,"

"No, the haircut makes you look like a douche," Micheal gave a dry smile, "I thought we agreed on mohawks, not pompadours,"

"It's still a mohawk!"

"You can't tell me _that_ is a mohawk, Pavs,"

Pavelski pushed Micheal's shoulder and laughed softly. Definitely not Micheal's funniest material, but it made Pavelski happy. That was good enough for him. It had to be.

Micheal noticed someone murmuring to Dillon, who had stepped back, and he recognized the long hair and facial hair soon after. Erik Karlsson, Micheal'd seen him in the background of a skype with Pavelski a while back. Burns had talked about Erik, as had Dillon, and both of them adored Erik, so Micheal would make the effort to get to know him too. Micheal had to know the men he would be fighting for, after all.

"Banker," Micheal grasped Labanc's wrist and pulled him into a hug, only remembering he wasn't wearing a binder until he'd already done it, "I," Suddenly Micheal's heart was racing, but since Labanc didn't seem to notice, Micheal lingered long enough to make the hug seem natural and then pulled back, "I really missed you, man, how's it been? You look good out there,"

Labanc's eyes lit up, and he gave his signature giggle, "You think so? I've been doing my best,"

"Between you and me?" Micheal leaned in, "Your best is pretty damn good. Making the line depth look beautiful,"

Micheal loved that smile on Labanc's face to death.

"I miss feeling safe with you and all the fun we had," Labanc sounded wistful, but cheered right up, "but you're back!"

"I sure am, man,"

"So, um, why did Boughner want you off the Panthers? Weren't you his favorite?"

Micheal's smile dropped, and he looked down at the floor, unable to look anywhere else without a teammate. He caught sight of Sorensen smacking Labanc on the back of the head out of the corner of his eye, and Jumbo squeezed Micheal.

"It's not important, Hales," Jumbo assured him, then turned to the team, "He's riding with me. Let's head to Burnzie's place, Halestorm needs a stiff drink and some fun, clearly,"

Pavelski nodded, glanced at Burns, "You alright with that?"

"Sure, if it'll cheer Haley up," Burns patted Micheal's shoulder, and the team headed to the parking area.

Micheal caught a small glimpse of Evander Kane getting in his car, and Erik murmured to Pavelski before he joined Micheal and Jumbo. Micheal ended up shotgun, and Erik laid himself out in the back with a blanket he must of brought with him.

"Haley, that's Erik Karlsson," Jumbo gave his introduction while he turned the car on and reversed it, "Karl, this is Micheal Haley,"

Erik sleepily said, "Yeah, the enforcer you all never got over. Nice to meet you, Haley,"

"Good to meet you," Micheal pondered for a moment, then grinned, "So how Swede is this team?"

Jumbo turned the steering wheel and pulled onto the main road, "Is that a pun or are you asking how many of our teammates are Swedish?"

"Yes,"

* * *

When Micheal fell asleep in the festivities, he didn't know. All he knew was that he woke up warm, back rested against something solid, and that there was a blanket draped over him. His head ached like he'd been hit with a baseball bat. Something tickled his neck, an arm draped around Micheal's stomach. Micheal wanted to drift back off to sleep. He was so tired, so so tired... 

Except someone was holding him. Micheal wasn't wearing a binder. He wasn't out to any of the Sharks.

_Oh, fuck._

Micheal's eyes shot open, and his heart sped up to a million miles an hour. He could see a phone scrolling through twitter, forearm propped against him. Micheal cleared his throat, and the phone's screen turned to black with a click. The arm around him unwound, and he heard a "shhh" in his ear.

Micheal recognized Burns' voice immediately, "Everyone's still asleep. I need to talk to you, though,"

"Sure," Micheal said, but he still could feel his anxiety brim in his veins, "Sure, let's go outside,"

Micheal peeled himself off of Burns, who only had on a pair of boxers and a tank top, recognizing the mess as Burns' living room. God, they must have all been so drunk last night. Or maybe just Micheal was, he'd never been too good with his liquor. Micheal realized he had his Panthers hoodie on, his striped one under Couture. While Burns got off the couch, Micheal tugged it out from under Couture's sleeping form draped across the armchair. It stunk like alcohol and was rather damp.

Burns gave Micheal's Panthers hoodie sleeve a tug, the red between his fingers until they were on the balcony. The sun killed Micheal's eyes... Micheal's first words when they were outside were, "You aren't wearing pants,"

"I have on boxers, good enough," Burns smiled, then cleared his throat, "So, do you remember that phone call last night?"

Oh God have mercy, a phone call? "No, what happened?"

For a long moment, Burns stayed silent, hand rubbing the back his neck, "Well, you, me, and Jumbo were out here last night, I wasn't too drunk, Jumbo was kind of, and you were so wasted you couldn't stand... and I got a phone call,"

It didn't sound too bad, and that's what worried Micheal, "Brent," Micheal leaned against the balcony, "just say it,"

"Hoffman outed you," Burns grimaced, "Jumbo and I didn't tell anyone,"

There went any second chance he had. Micheal wanted to go back inside, grab his things, and run out the door. He couldn't do this again. Instead, Micheal's gaze dropped. "Are you mad?"

"Nah," Burns waved it off, "but it makes me think about things, you know? We all talk about how we'd accept a gay player or a trans player, but..." Burns frowned, glanced over at Micheal, "That's why Boughner was so eager to get rid of you all of a sudden, wasn't it? For being transgendered,"

Micheal nodded, gripped the railing, "Almost everyone stopped talking to me. They put me on waivers because I couldn't communicate with the team anymore," He frowned, "I... I don't know what I was thinking,"

"It's called 'the Panthers are assholes and didn't deserve you,'" Burns ruffled Micheal's hair, "if you ever want to come out, the whole team made an agreement not to judge anyone for who they are,"

God, Micheal wished he didn't trust Burns so much, but it made his heart ache to not tell the Sharks the truth, "Maybe someday. Not right now. Now, come on, we can make breakfast for the hungover crew, and I can get some advil for my own,"

Micheal glanced inside, and opened the door to go inside. Burns followed him down the stairs, leaving the unconscious and rather drunk Sharks team members scattered around the living room. The longer Micheal walked, the more familiar everything felt. Micheal knew where the breadbox was, and he already knew where to find the butter, the knives were in the same place they always were back when he was with them the first time. The only difference was that Micheal never drank in front of them unless it was one single glass.

Everything felt the same as it always had before. Micheal pan-fried the bread, made toast, while Burns got out the eggs and milk. Burns put out a plate for the toast, and Micheal put the finished pieces onto it while Burns poured twenty three glasses' worth of orange juice. As the last piece of toast finished, Micheal put an extra piece on for himself. The only difference was Burns bringing Micheal his orange juice and some advil, and Burns putting the pills in his mouth before he put the glass to Micheal's lips so he could sip while he flipped toast.

As usual, every plate got two scrambled eggs, five slices of bacon, two pieces of toast, an orange, and Burns sliced up pineapple. Micheal did sunnyside up eggs for Hertl, his mind so lost on the past that he somehow remembered Hertl's stomach couldn't take dairy anymore.

"Hey, Burnzie," Micheal called, "We got any of the shit Tomas can eat? He can't have eggs, bread, or milk,"

"Gluten, he can't have gluten," Burns corrected him, then grabbed a pre-made salad out of the fridge, "There's some gluten free bagels in the cupboard, you can still give him bacon,"

"Is he okay with pineapple? I'm not giving him an upset stomach my first day back,"

"Hales, you sound like such a dad, relax,"

Micheal shut off the burner and put two advil on top of a napkin next to every plate, pushing Burns on his way over. Micheal pulled his phone out of his pocket and set it in the slot he remembered sitting in. The relief of the advil had taken over his own headache, and Micheal walked upstairs. He scanned the upstairs room with a small snort.

Jumbo was asleep in the windowsill with an empty beer next to him, with Erik and Jones with their heads rested on Dillon. Labanc, Hertl, Timo, Radil, and Simek all laid on the floor around the video game controllers, the game on a death screen. Pavelski and the rest of the team all laid scattered around the room, slumped against one wall or another.

Micheal cleared his throats and raised his voice, "Time to eat, guys, wake up!" Most them ignored him, so Micheal took a deep breath. Then he belted out, "Bay-bee shark! Doo doo doo doo doo doo, Baby-" Micheal dodged a pillow hucked at him by Braun, and laughed, "Get down here! I made breakfast!"

The chorus of groans and bodies peeling themselves off the floor and walls satisfied him. He led the mass of bodies down the stairs, most of them in pain from their hangovers, while Jumbo went to make himself some coffee like he hadn't drank any alcohol last night. Micheal watched everyone seat themselves, and then took his own. The room grew loud, familiar, full of life and laughter. Even with new faces like Kane, Erik, Simek, and Radil, the noise felt familiar, full of love. Micheal opened his mouth, the truth on his mind, but he closed it and just smiled.

The Panthers left a wound too fresh on his heart with their betrayal. For now, Micheal would be content to hide. Maybe later he would be willing to brave getting burned again, but for a little while, Micheal wanted the time to heal from what happened. When Micheal's phone buzzed, a text message from Huberdeau, he did the only thing he could. Micheal dismissed Huberdeau's message without reading it.

That chapter of his life had come to a close. It was time to move on.


End file.
